


the murky crow to cradle your descent

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Instability, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, but something of the like, in a very loose definition of the word, so not definitive gore, vent - Freeform, visceral imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24223792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: but to paint his eyes and feel the sting, fingertips and lips bleeding with the desperate desire to tell the tale of his tell-tale heart, of the threat of death that hangs in the gallows at the corner of his mind. to confess his past and experience mercy despite his bruises and indentations, to be swallowed in the presence of sunken praise singing from an ardent devotion, it would be-he cannot.(or, he is awake while hinata is not, and he can't help but think it all over.)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	the murky crow to cradle your descent

the most evil of acts is kept on the tip of a tongue.

he thinks of this while hinata sleeps at his side, the constant rising and falling of a chest that bears nothing but pure intent appearing suffocating. on an ordinary night, he would press his face against skin marred with the sun’s kiss and ultraviolet stars, but they rarely find the peace of an ordinary night amidst the litany of destructive ones.

he contemplates the action of brushing his hand through mussed-up spiky hair. he does not have to be afraid. he knows that hinata’s hair cannot possibly injure him. if so, he would be swollen with the sentiment of anxiety wrapped in surprise and elation. instead, he caves on himself, because he is a skeleton and his fingers are not able to be cut by hair. it is a failed test. an experiment.

(the experimental design procedure. 

make the chemical familiar to you.

corrosive. harmful if inhaled. may be absorbed through intact skin. causes eye and skin irritation and possible burns. may cause severe respiratory tract irritation with possible burns. may cause severe digestive tract irritation with possible burns. may cause liver and kidney damage. may cause central nervous system effects. this substance has caused adverse reproductive and fetal effects in animals. inhalation of fumes may cause metal-fume fever. possible sensitizer.

mercury.)

his fingers twitch with the urge to be scarred, to awaken his lark and speak of his pestilence, his malady, one that he locks up in a vial the color of mercury and promises the world he will never unscrew. but to paint his eyes and feel the sting, fingertips and lips bleeding with the desperate desire to tell the tale of his tell-tale heart, of the threat of death that hangs in the gallows at the corner of his mind. to confess his past and experience mercy despite his bruises and indentations, to be swallowed in the presence of sunken praise singing from an ardent devotion, it would be-

he cannot.

his secrets are kept close for a reason. the man beside him (so entirely  _ man,  _ not god or oracle, unknowing of the future ahead and yet so recklessly prepared to face it) is neither bellicose or barbarian or even familiar with either term, but there is still a caution, a warning to heed, that matters such as this are not matters lesser than spite. he has nothing left but fear for the person he seeks for affection, because such is the human nature, the selfish design of a despicable creature known as komaeda nagito, lost in the despondency of mere survival. 

the affection he seeks from hinata is not one he likens to poetry. he describes poetry that he finds himself (or the solace of himself) in as the bruise against his cheek, the affection he truly does adore, the abuse against his bones and skin but never touching the viscera, left to fester, rot, and putrefy on its own. what he receives from hinata and what he pleads for is the stroke of an angel, the beat of their wings echoing his heartbeat as golden light surrounds him and lifts him higher, higher,  _ higher,  _ until he cannot fall down without breaking a few bones, but his saint whispers  _ it’s okay, it’s okay  _ and so he makes his descent.

it is times like this where he hardly feels human, like himself. and isn’t that what he pined for with such blind desperation? idolatry of the concept of never having to carry his name, his existence, again? 

( _ to carry an existence _ , by komaeda nagito, a poet whose rise to fame occurred after his untimely death in his twenties. rumors say his pen never touched paper, fingers never touched keys. he still owns a grand piano that collects dust. he’s never explained it to his boyfriend, who outlived him by approximately 50 years. he is not a poet. but he is poetry.

the distinction is exhilarating.)

someday, he may speak the words he swallows, trapped in his trachea. for now, he looks at the clock (4 am, he has not slept in 45 hours) and tucks his legs underneath him as he kneels on the bed he declares sanctuary. 

(they had sex last night. a strange footnote, admittedly. it’s significance lies in the fact that  _ after,  _ he had said something like  _ living forever like this may be okay  _ and hinata laughed and replied  _ what, always aroused? sated?  _ and he didn’t have the will to say  _ no, beneath you,  _ so he simply nodded and hinata asked  _ wanna go again  _ and he added  _ are you okay  _ and the rest was insignificant. it’s just  _ that moment,  _ hinata’s arms wrapped tightly around him, made him want to sob for the first time in forever.)

he can visualize their morning with near-perfect accuracy. 

hinata will bless him with a smile, lopsided and sleepy, and he’ll rub circles against his cheekbone, murmuring  _ when did you wake up _ ? komaeda will shake his head, curl up against the other’s chest, relaxing as gentle fingers untangle the unwashed knots in his hair, listening to the hum of a virtuous heartbeat when he continues to say,  _ we should shower. also, good morning, love.  _ he only says pet names and suffers the embarrassment because komaeda’s ears turn crimson and he smiles on the tolerable days. 

on the bad days where he is torn apart, he trembles. hinata holds him close anyway.

he spares a glance. still asleep. a peaceful expression. if he closes his eyes, opens them, peers a little more-- hinata appears dead. he tears his gaze away, stares at the ceiling. what did he do to deserve him?

_ him,  _ not a corpse. corpses aren’t really things to be deserved. nobody makes a mistake enough to warrant nature forcing them to prostrate in the dirt, carrying a cadaver.

but he never triumphed through a herculean task. he never helped someone, offer them a shelter through a storm or a rough night. he never saved anybody (kissing the forehead of a stranger as he officially becomes the sole survivor of a plane crash, the last victim dead in a hospital bed, name unknown) or even tried. 

and here comes this beautiful person, the skies crying  _ hurrah, hurrah,  _ because he is ordinary and yet a favorite of the gods, taken care of when everything devolves to hell. hinata enters the life of him when he has less than a breath left of it, gives him the reason to  _ fight,  _ and even  _ now,  _ he cannot repay that. his entire life could be spent  _ trying,  _ but he would not succeed. 

he would fail.

he often does.

every time their words turn scathing (because this happens sometimes, he is told, in a relationship like theirs), he feels the guilt of a thousand war-torn men suffocate him like debris punctures the unforgiving dirt and he tries so,  _ so  _ desperately to stop the words that rip him apart from escaping his lips,

but he fails. 

he often does.

and their arguments simmer in the way that it isn’t meant to, because they end up agitated without each other, and there’s no separation, really, just makeup kisses that avoid the topic at hand, dancing on his tongue, but not on the tip because that’s where rests his evil and arguments are not evil despite the fact that he starts them every time. 

he wants to tell the other  _ why,  _ but the reason behind his secrets has already been noted.

he is mad. not anger, not resentful. rather, he is sickened by the existence of himself and all that entails it. he is exhausted. sleep may help him, and yet, he is still overcome with the pressure of heaviness and the desire to surrender, so much so that he collapses beside hinata and does not sleep, not for a second, because he does not want to vindicate himself to happiness when he should be damned and condemned.

and for the oddest reason, one he cannot determine, he wants to laugh.

_ hurrah, hurrah! _

**Author's Note:**

> this is a very... hm. well, this piece isn't quite interconnected with the sections in it. there's a chance i deviated from my initial point, lost in the imagery that i took comfort in. so, this may actually make very little sense. i'll give myself some slack. it's a vent, after all, and a vent spanning the course of two days, so what i wanted /to/ vent about definitely shifted. 
> 
> and so, end result is this.
> 
> that being said, i do have some appreciation for the narrative style i am taking on. the random tidbits of unrelated information. the whole segment about side effects in the start was the msds information for mercury. msds sheets are used when you're doing a lab experiment and need to check the potential hazards of your chemicals.
> 
> i think that was nifty, what i did. 
> 
> that is pretty much all i have to say. i hope you enjoyed.


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